Forget it Jake
by Sjokolade
Summary: Yamamoto and Gokudera spend an evening in Chinatown guarding a 'special delivery' for the Triads. And who cares what it is they're guarding or what it is they're drinking as long as they have an excuse to finally be alone together? 8059 slight 6918


**Rating**: T – for a mix of romance and creepy  
**Pairing**: 8059 (…with a hint of 6918)  
**Disclaimers**: I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn (whew! Sure felt good to get that off my chest)  
**Quick comment**: written for the KHR Romance contest hosted by thePeekaBoo. Challenge: write a romantic one-shot with the pairing 805980 in it, any genre allowed! The setting is Chinatown, so I took the title from that famous movie quote: "forget it Jake, it's Chinatown".  
Ok then, now you can read ^_^

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" Forget it Jake "

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Gokudera hated Yamamoto.  
He always thought everything was a _game_ – didn't take things seriously enough because he didn't realize he was supposed to. Yamamoto Takeshi, all fun and all play.  
Idiot…  
So when they went down to Chinatown, Gokudera was playing idly but semi-seriously with the idea of getting him drunk and selling him off to some unscrupulous Chinese chef. Rumors had it they used dead cats. So why not puppy-eyed, brain-dead Yamamoto Takeshi?

He talked so much on the bus ride about stupid things like baseball and uninteresting things like how hungry he was and his latest load of extra homework, that they missed their stop and had to get off at the next one instead, which turned out to be the porn district. Plus it reminded Gokudera of how hungry _he_ was.  
Stupid jock…  
They walked through the neon washed streets, their faces painted blood red and swimming pool blue and baby pink by the garish, flickering sugar candy signs that took up every inch of wall space around them. On, off, on again, off again. Mostly the light was red, though. Dr. Shamal came to mind. There were red 'X's everywhere.

"This is all your fault," muttered Gokudera sourly. He lit a cigarette and stuck his hands deep into the pockets of his cargo pants.  
He felt suddenly tremendously embarrassed, walking beside Yamamoto through streets that seemed to be made entirely up of references to the female anatomy with varying degrees of style and subtlety, and he tried very hard not to blush or meet anybody's gaze.  
But Yamamoto just laughed and their elbows brushed against each other when they walked. "Ha ha, come on, it's not!"

Yamamoto seemed to be not at all bothered by the explicit offers or the kinky bordering on vulgar images that floated past them. As if he had no trouble at all with such things. "I didn't remember what the stop was called," he said with a hapless shrug. "You could've said something. Ah! We're almost there!" he added before Gokudera could make a retort.  
He was about to ask how Yamamoto could be so sure, but then he smelled it too and didn't have to.

Chinatown smelled exotic and rich and _alive_, colorful like a masquerade. It smelled of roasted meat, baked prawns, sizzling sesame oil and gun powder, and as they turned the corner and stepped into the small piece of hyper-concentrated essence of Chinese suburbia, Gokudera's stomach groaned wistfully. So did Yamamoto's, apparently, for his step faltered with every food stand and gaudy restaurant they passed by, and Gokudera had to yank his arm and shout at him to get him to keep moving.  
"Come on, jackass, we can eat later!"  
"Oh, but look! Gokudera, they've got a gyouza stand over there! Couldn't we just –"  
Geez, sports freaks and their bottomless stomachs…!  
They didn't have time for this now damnit, they were on a mission!

.

Yes, Yamamoto and he were in Chinatown for a very specific reason.  
Lately the Triads had started to take an active interest in the Vongola, particularly their young 10th Generation Boss and his ring-bearing crew of (more or less) devoted Guardians. The Chinese dealt, for the most part, in the highly risky, highly illegal and highly profitable import and export of exotic drugs and, even though the Boss personally didn't approve of that sort of business, Reborn had convinced him to lend them a helping hand anyway. That way the Triads would be indebted to the Vongola, which would undoubtedly come in handy some day.

The task they had been asked to do, however, seemed rather pointless. Apparently there was a 'very special' delivery stashed away in an apartment somewhere, probably drugs, waiting to get picked up by the 'right people' – except the right people never showed up and now the Triads needed someone to guard it until they did. Whenever that might be.

To compensate for the risks involved the Triads had promised to provide them also with a fully stocked liquor cabinet, which, when they were informed of it, made Sasagawa Ryôhei become very excited and poor Tsuna go very pale.

Gokudera was at first opposed to the idea. His natural suspicion kicked in at the thought of putting a bunch of 18 year olds in charge of guarding drugs and then paying them in liquor and some vague, distant promise of future aid – surely those bastards must be up to something?  
But he eventually accepted it, because Tsuna accepted it. And because they would be taking the shifts in pairs, because Tsuna said so. He had insisted on it.

Gokudera had glanced quickly up at Yamamoto then, thoughtlessly, and Yamamoto, his lips slightly parted and for once not smiling, had met his gaze. It lasted no longer than a heartbeat and then they had both looked away quickly.  
Pairs, huh…

.

"Err, Gokudera? I think we're lost…"

Yamamoto's face was electric blue now and he was scratching his chin distractedly while his eyes scanned the elaborate, curly facades of the houses that lined the narrow street where they had stopped. Gokudera lit another cigarette in attempt to kill his now painful appetite and grumbled that no, they weren't lost because he knew _exactly _where they were, even though he didn't. He was struck sometimes with an odd, crazy desire to prove that he was _better_ than Yamamoto.

This time, however, he got lucky because when they turned the next corner he spotted a black clad little group. There were 4 of them, much taller than most of the people who normally frequented these parts of town, hiding themselves just enough to make all the decent people pick another street to walk and the pick-pockets a different corner to haunt. At first glance they looked like they might be yakuza, with their identical suits and hair-dos and their stony faces.  
They weren't though. The Yakuza didn't come here. They were prefects.

As it turned out, they would be taking over for Hibari Kyouya – and since Hibari would pair up with no one and no one would pair up with Hibari, Tsuna, who worried about him anyway (God bless him), had talked to Dino who had talked Romario who had talked to Kusakabe who had somehow managed to convince Hibari that it would be a really good idea to at least have some of the prefects with him.

Their school days were over, just as they were for their dearly, deadly beloved boss – who had graduated (presumably) from high school that same year – and yet the Disciplinary Committee of Namimori middle school remained.

They knew who Yamamoto and Gokudera were, of course, and greeted them with curt nods that only Yamamoto returned. Gokudera didn't much like Hibari's underlings.

Without a word they were lead by one of them down a dark, back alley and into a lightless courtyard. At the far end of it, almost completely invisible in the shadows cast by one of the looming buildings, was a rickety, spiraling staircase. Up, up, up they climbed, until they came to a long corridor that took them into the core of the tall, quiet building.  
The walls were a sickening purple-red color. Like fresh innards.  
They looked around, and then at each other, but neither of them said anything.

They passed by rows of anonymous, unnumbered doors on both sides and statues of guardian animals that leered at them from where they sat perched on their little pedestals set within shallow niches in the walls. Golden dragons that looked like lions with roaring mouths and jade hounds with glittering eyes and bared fangs.

Finally they came to a halt in front of a door that looked exactly like all the others. Gokudera wondered vaguely how the prefect could tell this one apart from the others – or if maybe he had been counting the doors. Gokudera had. They had passed 11 doors, 12 if he included this. Or maybe the guy couldn't count, because when he knocked it was the door next to it that opened.

And there in the doorway stood Hibari Kyouya. Sweet as a punch.

Hibari was dressed in the same neat black silk clothes and neat black slippers as nearly everyone else in Chinatown, with a small but elaborate piece of dark, lacquered wood and red and golden swirls fastened neatly to his hair on the side of his head. When he saw that it was them his tonfa lowered. "Gokudera Hayato. Yamamoto Takeshi," he said, his smooth face perfectly void of any expression. Then, in a flash, he had conjured up a very official looking black book and a pen, "…tardiness," he said as if to himself and scribbled it down.

Gokudera's eye twitched. "Aw, blow it out your ear, Hibari!" He didn't like Hibari either.  
But Yamamoto just laughed, like he always did, as if Hibari was being funny or something. "Ahaha, always the prefect, huh! We, err, got off at the wrong stop and –"  
"_You _got us off at the wrong stop!" … tch!  
Stupid idiot…

They followed after Hibari into a cramped room that smelled of incense and burnt paper and something faintly sweet, like rotten fruit. Inside it was cluttered like a jewelry box. Cardboard boxes were stacked on top of each other against the wall like towers almost reaching up to the ceiling, and there were narrow book shelves that had no books in them but were populated instead by tiny figurines and extravagantly carved hash pipes set with bits of jade and silver. In one corner stood a number of low, flat tea tables of polished, black wood that shone like mirrors and looked rare. Clearly this apartment was used for storing much more than drug deliveries.

The room was dimly lit by a number of red paper lanterns that cast the room in an eerie, spooky-like light that made the dust look like pink sugar and gave Gokudera the feeling that he was walking _into _something. Something that was still alive. Even Yamamoto shuddered as he craned his neck and looked around at everything.

"Anyway, what are _you_ doing here?" Gokudera glared up at Hibari in attempt to distract himself. Not like he was scared or anything. "Since when did you start to care?"  
"I don't," said Hibari coolly. The unsettling atmosphere seemed not to faze him in the least. "I am only here because I need a favor from the baby." He yawned as he sauntered back towards the entrance, now with a bag slung over his shoulder. He had probably slept through his entire watch. "Well then, if you'll excuse me…" he drawled nonchalantly.

"Bye, Hibari!" called Yamamoto after him with an uncertain wave. Then, "hey, wait! What exactly are we –"  
The door clicked shut.  
"…supposed to be guarding?"

There was a plain black couch in the middle of the room and a table that looked much less fancy than the ones in the corner, and a delicate glass cabinet with bottles of amber and gold, rich red, licorice black and emerald green that glittered invitingly where they caught the light. A simple, unadorned wooden box had been placed on top of it.

Gokudera sunk down on the couch and felt his shoulders relax as if by some unspoken cue. He let his eyes wander around the strange, cramped room, feeling languid now. There was always a certain tension to his muscles when he was out walking in the streets. Because he was slight and flaxen-haired and wore jewelry that made him look rich even though he wasn't. He was suspicious by nature, constantly vigilant and watchful, as if any new corner he rounded might be hiding some new threat. And when he wasn't dealing with shady-looking stalkers – who, often as not, were just shady looking – he was often being harassed for the fineness of his features or prodded for money he didn't have.

It's because you're pretty, Yamamoto had said once. You stand out too much, it's impossible to miss you in a crowd. Then, as if his brain had suddenly caught up with his mouth, he had blushed terribly and added with an awkward laugh that it probably didn't help that he was small and skinny and looked like a girl from behind. Ha ha.

Behind him, the door opened and Yamamoto peered out. "He left." Then the door shut again and there was a loud, metallic snap as the key turned.

The leather creaked as Yamamoto slid down next to him. They looked at each other and suddenly the air between them seemed thick and heavy. This was it. Then they both glanced over their shoulders at the same time to look at the door again. It remained firmly shut, firmly locked, and very quiet. They were alone. Hibari Kyouya was gone and the prefects were gone and no one else would come here for several hours. It was just the two of them alone, definitely alone – again.

The only thing he could hear now was the sound of his heart pounding in his ears.

Casting the dark, silent door one last wary look, Yamamoto reached out a hand and circled his waist, the other reaching up to brush the silvery hair away. Gokudera's eyes darted once again to the door as Yamamoto's fingers brushed against the nape of his neck and slid up to tangle in his hair, but then he leant his face a little closer, and Yamamoto's lips were on his and Gokudera forgot all about the door.

It was a soft kiss, long and intense, as if their mouths had had missed each other terribly and wanted to draw out the moment for as long as possible. He grabbed the front of Yamamoto's shirt, tugged at his collar to pull him closer, the other hand snaking its way around to press against a sharp, wing-like shoulder blade. Yamamoto's lips, which had been stiff and hesitant not so long ago, parted and when the tips of their tongues met Gokudera felt it like a thunderbolt. Like something exploded in the pit of his stomach.  
The next thing he knew he was sitting on Yamamoto's lap, clutching the unruly black mop of hair tightly with both hands, kissing him madly, roughly, deeply. And Yamamoto's hands were on the small of his back, stroking his thighs, massaging the stiffness of his neck. Their breaths were warm and heavy against each others' lips and necks.  
It had been too long, much too long, how had he even survived for this long...

If someone had been spying on them they might have been surprised at this turn of events but, well, it wasn't their first time… at all.

.

Their little… 'thing' (Gokudera would die before he would call it an _affair_) had started not too long ago.

The first time it happened was during one of their very first stake-outs – or rather, what had started out as a stake-out and then ended up with the two of them being accidentally locked up inside the back of a truck together. It was Dino Cavallone whom they were supposedly helping out that time, because someone was smuggling out weapons and selling them without permission to a smaller, rivaling family that was now imposing on Bucking Bronco's territory. The guns were 'Made in Russia' as far as anyone could tell but the export/import trail had been traced to Japan. So.

It was also one of the first challenges that they had taken on together as a group without being somehow forced or thrown into it.

Gokudera, who could barely contain his excitement, had wanted to stay near the 10th. He was desperate to prove himself. But the Boss, who was very nervous about the whole thing, had insisted that he needed the two of them, Yamamoto and him, on recon. Because, quite frankly, he had said, who else could?  
Perhaps he was right. And they did find the guns, of course. They were stashed away in the back of that truck.

Because they were supposed to gather information and not fight, they had hidden themselves among the cardboard boxes when they heard someone approaching. He had been ready to jump out and attack, but Yamamoto had grabbed onto the back of his shirt and yanked him back, wordlessly shaking his head. _Don't!  
_Maybe the smugglers would start talking and reveal something valuable, like they did in the movies, so they had sat quite still, waiting. But as they sat there the wide double back doors had been shut and everything went very dark and then there had been the loud, creaking sound of metal scraping against metal when a heavy bolt slid into place, effectively locking the truck.

They were trapped.

He had been furious! If they had done what _he_ wanted then those smuggler dogs would have been reduced to a heap of smoldering ashes by now, but no! Instead he was stuck inside a cramped, sweaty truck full of Russian weapons that were most likely headed to Italy together with that goddamn baseball idiot!  
He had even pulled out dynamite, but that seemed to do it for Yamamoto.

He had punched him hard in the face and when Gokudera had tried to punch back Yamamoto had caught his fist and with surprising and (to Gokudera) alarming speed and ease, he had practically wrenched him to the ground. As he lay flat on his back with Yamamoto's knee pressed sharply into his hip and both arms pinned to the dirty floor of the truck, Yamamoto had explained to him in a quick, aggravated whisper that if Gokudera was so eager to get himself killed then fine! But they had directions, a game-strategy, and until they knew what was going on outside, where Tsuna and the others were and how many smugglers there were then the best thing they could do was stick to the plan they had. If Gokudera wanted to fight so badly then sure, he could go ahead, but maybe he should consider _not_ blowing up things – for _once_! – while they were locked up inside an enclosed space that was full of gun powder. It was probably the longest and most logical speech he had ever heard from that guy, Gokudera mused. And the angriest, too.

And just then truck had lurched into motion and they were thrown into the back wall and fell in a heap on top of each other.  
"What now, Genius?" he had grumbled sourly with Yamamoto's knee pressed nearly all the way into his mouth.

They managed to untangle from each other and drag each other up into a sitting position, a little shakily.

And then the thing that wasn't supposed to happen, happened.  
There were a thousand things to blame, really. Such as how dark it was and how they were both a little nervous – the truck moving might mean they were already on their way to some shipping dock or wherever, and it would be a hassle to try and get home all the way from Europe – and maybe, just maybe there was a teeny tiny little bit of tension there between them that had laid dormant and unresolved for some time.  
However it was, when he turned his head up his nose hit Yamamoto's and, very briefly, their lips brushed against each other and then his mouth met Yamamoto's in a clumsy kiss.

His shoulders tensed and he thought no, no, no, oh shit, oh shit…! That was not what he had meant to do. When Yamamoto's hands came up he was sure it was to push him away, but instead they slid around his waist and locked behind his back, awkwardly pulling them closer together. Their lips untangled briefly, a pause that was thick with uncertainty, and then met again. He nudged Yamamoto's lips open with the tip of his tongue, felt the tightness of his mouth melt away, a little, then a little wider until their tongues met. His mouth tasted like almonds, golden brown and faintly sweet, and his tongue felt at the same time smooth and rough like a soapy washcloth.

They started out only kissing, but it grew too hot, too wild. Gokudera felt it like his insides were electric and every touch, every slip of skin, every lick made little explosions in his stomach. It almost hurt with the pleasure of it. And Yamamoto returned the heat.  
Kissing was actually kind of cool…

Later they heard that their little Vongola-Cavallone co-op sabotage scheme had turned out as an all out battle, which ended up including both Hibari, who had been after the smugglers himself for imposing on _his _territory, and even Rokudo Mukuro and his band of misfits when the smugglers had tried to hide themselves out at Kokuyo, which was Mukuro's territory.  
Namimori could be confusing that way, to newcomers.

But Yamamoto and Gokudera knew nothing of the slaughter going on outside. After they had made out for almost an hour it occurred to their hazy, enamored minds that someone might eventually want to unlock the truck again to get the guns – Yamamoto felt they ought to stay prepared for an attack and Gokudera didn't feel much like being caught by anyone with his tongue in Yamamoto's mouth. But they waited and waited and no one came and in the end they both fell asleep, clutching each other as if they might drown in steel and cardboard and aluminum.

When Dino and Tsuna found them almost 4 hours later, they were still fast asleep. Yamamoto had buried his head hard into Gokudera's shoulder, and Gokudera's breath was making the coarse black hairs stir and sway, smooth like sea weed, his delicate nose twitching a little each time Yamamoto shifted in his sleep.  
Tsuna said they had looked a bit like brothers.  
Like brothers?  
Yeah, you know, kind of like you belonged together. Like if you tried to take one away, the other would wake up and chase after you. Anyway, it's nice to see you guys getting along, finally!

After that they had carefully avoided each other and tried not to look at each other in class. It had been the longest, most agonizing week of his life. He had been tormented by visions of himself abandoning the 10th, submitting himself, no _losing_ himself, instead to Yamamoto Takeshi. What if they had been discovered? Hello world, I'm gay, whoopi-fucking-doo! Imagine if someone had walked in on them?

Even Yamamoto had suffered through one of his extremely rare periods of _not _being grinningly carefree, wondering whether _he_ was really gay and whether he ought to try and talk to Gokudera or simply avoid him altogether.

After exactly 7 excruciating days had passed, it was he who went to Yamamoto.

It was raining hard and the wind was making the houses creak and groan and it was dark outside like a ghost story. He had dripped rain drops all over the floor of Yamamoto's room, which he had barged into, perfectly unannounced in the middle of the night because Yamamoto slept with the veranda door open and sneaking in was child's play.

"I'm not in love with you!" he had said, even though it was not what he wanted to say. "And I don't need you."

And Yamamoto, whose initial look of heart numbing surprise faded quickly to be replaced by something else entirely when he saw who it was, was suddenly all Japanese and had looked at him with eyes that, for once, revealed nothing. He had said nothing either, but when Gokudera turned to leave, he had grabbed his arm.  
Not his hand, nothing so intimate. "Gokudera, wait!"

He turned to jerk his arm loose, he didn't know what more there was to say – or what he _might _say if he stayed just a second longer – but something in Yamamoto's eyes made him stop. They were the color of caramels. The caramels studied the floor for a second that felt like it lasted much longer, before they tilted up and met his gaze full of quiet understanding.  
"I know…"

Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, he grinned. And then he laughed. And he was Yamamoto Takeshi again. "Ahaha, I thought maybe you didn't want to talk to me again!"  
All fun and all play Yamamoto Takeshi…

"What are you – _idiot_! Are you even listening?" Gokudera's pale hands clenched into fists – the other's sudden change of mood had taken him completely by surprise. How could things be so difficult with someone who was so _simple_?! "This isn't a reconciliation you fool!"

"I know that." Still grinning his bright, Prom-King grin, Yamamoto had suddenly put his arms around Gokudera's stiff shoulders and hugged him in a tight embrace. "I don't care!"  
He was bare-chested and tall and warm and smelled of boy-skin and soap and the clean sweat of sleep. _And almonds_. Gokudera's shoulders relaxed a little.  
As if guided by some invisible force, his own hands were suddenly moving up to encircle Yamamoto's waist. Even though it was not what he had meant to do. What more was there to say, anyway…?  
_He tasted golden brown, like almonds._

Oh, yes, just one more thing though. "…I'm still gonna be the 10ths right hand man," he mumbled into Yamamoto's chest.  
"Hmm, no, I wanna be that," Yamamoto replied softly into his hair. "You can be his right ear lobe."

.

And so they had started talking to each other again and Tsuna had looked relieved – he must have realized something was up, he was so sensitive to such things.  
On the outside though, very little changed between them. Gokudera didn't stop insulting him, he didn't start to watch baseball and his burning admiration for Sawada Tsunayoshi did not fade. Not even a little. But when the Vongola decided to take on their next big mission, which happened not long after because the wicked and guilty never rest, Yamamoto and Gokudera volunteered at once to do the recon. Together. They didn't get locked up anywhere this time, but the moment they were absolutely certain that they were perfectly alone by themselves their mouths crashed together, hands roaming over thin cotton shirts, slipping underneath. And then, after that, there was the next mission, the next mystery, the next problem, the next adventure...

The bad thing was, he liked it.

At first he had felt stupid, like some blushing, giggling school girl making up silly excuses to her parents so that she could spend time with her secret boyfriend… But that was what he found himself doing, what he caught Yamamoto doing. Except for the giggling part.

Yes, of course, they could do recon, sure they could do stake-out, no problem they could sneak in through the secret entrance – anything at all, so long as it gave them an opportunity, however brief, however fleeting, to be alone together. Anything for just one more moment in time that he could spend with Yamamoto's body pressed up against his own, his legs wrapped around Yamamoto's waist and Yamamoto's tongue inside his mouth.

Eventually nothing about it felt stupid anymore. Because sneaking around, he discovered, could be very, very exciting.

.

They lay chest to chest on the couch, leather creaking pleasantly with each shift of a leg, each nudge of a hip, their legs tangled together. Their kisses were slower now, wet and warm on every bared inch of skin, their hands no longer so wanton and frantic, but languid and curious. They were enjoying each other now, exploring each other.

However, they were both starving, and when their moans and sighs continued to be interrupted by the persistent growling of their own stomachs, they felt forced to untangle from each other for just long enough to see if there was anything around that they could eat.  
So they roamed around the apartment, looking at everything, peeking inside the closets and sniffing tentatively at the many boxes that lay around, hoping that perhaps one of them might contain something edible. But in the end they had to give up. If there ever had been food in the apartment it had long since rotted to dust or been devoured by Ryôhei and Reborn, who had been there before Hibari. And nobody had ever seen Hibari eat anything (though Rokudo Mukuro claimed he had tricked him into eating a poisoned apple once).

What their options eventually boiled down to was Yamamoto standing uncertainly by the glass cabinet with a bottle of bright, green liquor in his hand.

If no trace remained behind of any food that may or may not have been consumed by Reborn and Ryôhei, traces of their drinking certainly did. Of all the twenty-something bottles inside the glass locker, only the one currently in Yamamoto's grasp seemed untouched.

"Ha ha, looks like it's just this!" He held the bottle up against the faint, red light. "Err, do you think we should take something that isn't, you know, green though? Pops always says to be careful with eating green things, he he."  
"That's ironic, coming from a sushi chef," mumbled Gokudera in reply with a small snort of laughter. Then, "...tch! I'll take it. I'm not drinking from anything that turf-head's had his big mouth on," he added with a scowl. Sasagawa Ryôhei and his perpetually open mouth came to mind.  
Friggin' idiot…

It tasted like death and felt like hellfire in his stomach, the green stuff. But at least it was a warm _something _in his stomach.  
What neither of them knew, however, was that the green liquor Yamamoto had found was in fact not liquor at all. It was spirit. There was a reason it was green. There was also a reason why Reborn and Ryôhei, who really had taken a swig of all the other bottles had avoided this particular one.

Absinthe is often called the Green Fairy because of its mesmerizing color, but the more they drank the less fascinated they were of the magical greenness and the more fascinated they became of each other. Hungry as they both were, the alcohol was absorbed by every pore of their bodies, and it went straight to their heads.

Gokudera's brain felt like a cloud, bobbing gently, comfortably inside his skull, and his eyesight was getting hazy. All he knew was that there was skin under his lips and lips on his skin, that somehow his shirt had been pulled up to under his chin and that he was insanely, agonizingly aroused. He sucked on the bottle of bitter green, while Yamamoto sucked on his neck and he was on his back on the table with Yamamoto on top of him.

And then they heard the scraping.

At first it was very faint and it didn't properly register with either of them, but when it didn't stop their swimming eyes eventually unglued from each other and began to wander around the red room to see if they could spot the source of it. It was a scratching noise, like nails dragging over wood. Yamamoto glanced up from where he had been busying himself licking stray drops of absinthe off the flat plane of Gokudera's stomach. "Do, umh, d'you hear it too…?"

Gokudera pushed himself halfway up on slightly unsteady elbows. "Yeah…" he looked around and felt instantly dizzy. Damn, drinking on an empty stomach was just _not_ –

"'Think 's coming from there…" Yamamoto, still laying half on top of him, pointed at some place behind him and he leant his head all the way back. There was a persistent, throbbing ache between his legs. The glass cabinet? No, the chest… The black little chest that stood on top of it.

The scraping had gotten more desperate now, as if whatever was inside couldn't breathe or something. Gingerly they got to their feet, holding onto each other for support. Suddenly it became a matter of pride to him. He was half Italian! Like hell he was gonna let himself get drunk under the table by some Japanese sports freak. He would be _better_!

With small steps they approached the glass cabinet, the chest. The scraping continued. Yamamoto swallowed. "Should, err, should we… open it up?"  
They glanced at each other, eyebrows raised, and, as one, they gave a determined nod. They had to see.

Gokudera halfway expected it to be a rat or maybe a cockroach that had somehow managed to get itself trapped in there, and so he felt his heart skip a beat when he saw what was inside, when he realized what he was looking at.

It was a slab of meat, or it looked like it, roughly twice the size of a grown man's fist, glistening pink and red in the sparse light. It was heavily veined and smudged with blood that looked almost black and patches of the sickly grey-green color of decay. Was it an _organ_? It looked a bit like a human heart, except it was too big. Were the Triads dealing in organs as well? The Boss was not going to like this…

Yamamoto's hand was suddenly on his upper arm, squeezing hard. "…Gokudera?"

Gokudera had just enough time to think that if this was what was inside the box then what had made that scraping sound, when they spotted the claw. What had first looked like black veins sticking out from the side of the flesh suddenly uncurled itself with a wet sound like a snake tongue and with jerky movements began to scrape at the wooden bottom of the box like a small bird digging for worms in the ground. Like it was trying to move itself. The stringy black slime that he had taken for dead tissue twirled around itself. Feeding maggots came to mind.

"Go-Gokudera?"

His thoughts felt like syrup as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Some kind of mutation? But a mutation of what? He opened his mouth to say something, but then he forgot what it was he had meant to say because just then the glistening flesh in the chest gave a shudder.  
The surface rippled smoothly and they noticed for the first time a long crack that ran across it. They noticed it now because it was widening, opening, the veined folds like pink sea creatures sliding aside to reveal an eye…

A single, tear-drop shaped glob of moist, glistening jelly, like a pollywog egg. The pupil, black as a void, rotated slowly around, then back and forth like a pendulum.

Yamamoto drew his breath in a long, slow gasp, his eyes were wide and round like cup trays. "Gokudera!"

And in that instant the pupil focused on them. As if it _heard_! As if it_ saw _them!

At the exact same time, they screamed – and then they were running!

As fast as they could, bumping into sharp corners with hips and knees, tripping over their own feet and clutching at each others' shirts to regain their balance, scrambling for the black square of the door. For one heart-shattering split second they clawed at it and it seemed it would not open. Then finally it did and they wrenched it open and bolted out. Past the demonic animal statues and identical doors – 10, 9, 8, how many had it been? The corridor seemed to have no end now. The flesh colored walls seemed to cave in on them, as if the building itself was trying to swallow them before they could escape.  
They stumbled and half-ran, half-fell down the spiral staircase, grasping the thin, cold railing with sweaty palms. They panted and cast quick, frightened glances over their shoulders as they crossed the dark courtyard, and Gokudera imagined the horrid _thing _crawling out of its box and dragging its misshapen little body after them.

They finally reached the end of the little alley where they had met Hibari's band of prefects a few hours earlier and stopped, clutching each other, panting hard in attempt to catch their breath.

"My my, Vongola, what seems to be the matter?"  
They looked up and into the androgynous face of Rokudo Mukuro, who came sauntering towards them, calm as a languid cat. He looked deceptively like any ordinary teenager now, alone by himself and carrying with him in one gloved hand a white plastic bag that smelled painfully delicious of steamed rice and pickled pork.  
"You look like you've seen a ghost…?"

Gokudera felt faintly sick. The mere thought of meat…! "What, now _you're _here too?" he spat weakly, the terror in the box momentarily forgotten. Why was _he_ here? Hibari Kyouya was one thing, but Mukuro he didn't trust for a second. Wouldn't. Not for all the money or all the knowledge in the world.

"Ah, Mukuro!" Yamamoto looked up at him with wild eyes, "don't go in there! Seriously! There was this thing," he said, gesticulating with his hands, "and it went 'ritch, ritch' and then we opened the box and 'bam'! There is was! And it looked at us like with that eye like 'squelch' and –"  
Gokudera rolled his eyes. Mukuro simply stared with a look of mild curiosity on his face. He was not used to Yamamoto, or Yamamoto's often intelligible way of explaining things.

"Hmm, you aren't making much sense, you know." Mukuro drew in a long breath through his nose and then suddenly his thin lips curved in an elegant smile. "And you should be more careful of what you put in your mouth."

Gokudera's eye twitched. He really didn't like Mukuro. But, then again, there weren't a lot of people Gokudera liked. "And what's that supposed to mean?!"

"You smell of Wormwood," Mukuro said mysteriously. "Don't you know that Chinese absinthe is poisonous?"  
He smirked and added, "Except to the Chinese, of course."

Yamamoto stared at him, then he and Gokudera looked at each other. They'd drunken _poison_? No way… Suddenly Gokudera's menacing glare got a look of fierce determination. In less than 24 hours he would become Namimori's first and only absinthe expert.

"Oh man, that sure smells nice!" said Yamamoto, as if he had only just noticed the plastic bag. To him the phrase 'don't you know' didn't quite hit it where it hurt, considering he heard it at least 8 times a day, often as not from Gokudera. He grinned and Gokudera shook his head. At the prospect of food he suspected Yamamoto would gladly have run to the end of the world and back. Moron. "I'm starving, actually. Is the food expensive here?"

"Expensive?" Mukuro looked very smug. "I wouldn't know."

Yamamoto wrinkled his brow in puzzlement at this odd reply, "err ok…?" But Gokudera simply rolled his eyes and knew without being told that right now, somewhere nearby stood some young girl, no doubt attempting to steady her own beating heart, probably wondering if the polite, blue-haired _angel_ might come back again to her store one day.  
All the Vongola boys were relatively attractive in their own way, but Mukuro was the only one who was clever or cruel enough to take advantage of it. When Mukuro came, girls turned into butter.

Gokudera had his doubts about how much Mukuro really fancied girls though – something about the way he _talked_.

"Are you by yourself?" Yamamoto scratched his neck. "I thought we weren't supposed to be."  
"Hmm, I don't think I will be for very long," replied Mukuro, his eyes glittering with laughter, as if he was enjoying some private joke. As he sauntered past then, Gokudera caught a glimpse of his pale neck. There was a purple mark on it, just above the collar bone, and – were those teeth marks?

Struck by a sudden, impossible thought he squinted after Mukuro's retreating figure. And then he heard the faint, shrill twittering of a small bird, sounding slightly muffled. It came from Mukuro's jacket. Yamamoto's eyebrows floated up. He had heard it, too. "Isn't that…?"

If he hadn't been so strung out on Chinese-produced absinthe, stuff that he now realized might turn out to be poisonous, and half-starved to death, he might have showed more of a reaction. But, as it were, the only vague thought that floated to the surface of Gokudera's mind was _sweet! I hope they kill each other!  
_Or maybe he was just hallucinating...

_._

Side by side Yamamoto and he wandered through the blinking, glittering, color masquerade that was Chinatown with slightly swaying steps. Occasionally their elbows brushed together.  
"Do you want to grab a bite or something?" asked Yamamoto. When he looked down at Gokudera now and their eyes met, he didn't blush and Gokudera didn't scowl and neither looked quickly away.  
"Food, that's all you jocks ever think about, isn't it." Then his stomach cried loudly. "…tch! Fine, let's go eat."

Stupid baseball idiot…

Without thinking he slid his hand into Yamamoto's, which molded to fit around his easy as if it had been made for that purpose alone. What could it hurt, after all?  
Nobody knew them here, anyway.

.

.

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**Final comment**: be really careful with absinthe people! This turned out kind of long… You should have seen it before I cut out the 6918 parts (figured I should try and keep it on topic).

Anyway, hope you enjoyed this! Reviews are welcomed, encouraged and appreciated to the EXTREME ^_~


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